during the last week, consumed the greater part of every day in ineffectual study, trying to perfect myself in the terminology of the science of Fashion.  I have listened attentively, and have gathered into a retentive memory sundry technicalities; but in vain have I submitted these terms of a strange dialect to the strictest etymological research.  In vain have I conversed upon this subject with the most intelligent dry-goods dealers.  In learning the few idiomatic phrases they employ, I have experienced only the satisfaction which young students in Greek literature feel, when they have, with infinite labor, mastered the alphabet of that rich and copious language.

But there is hope.  Experience tells us, this state of things cannot last for ever.  A few weeks, and our sufferings shall be rewarded, our forbearance repaid.  Then shall gay streamers, pendent from rejuvenated bonnets, float, as of yore, across our promenades, and on the shoulders of Earth’s fairest daughters the variegated mantle be again displayed.  The streets, now deserted by the fair, will ere long glitter with the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept once more by the gracefully flowing silk.  Taper fingers shall condescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, and witty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensible jargon.

TO JENNY LIND,

ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA “ON MIGHTY PENS,” FROM “THE CREATION.”

  When Haydn first conceived that air divine,
  The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine. 
  The Lark, that even now to heaven’s gate springs,
  And near the sky her earth-born carol sings,
  Poured on his ear a higher, purer note,
  And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. 
  To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove
  Breathed Eden’s innocence and Eden’s love;
  And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay
  The Nightingale poured forth at close of day;
  For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth,
  To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth. 
  Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne
  The melody of that primeval morn,
  And all his soul was music,—­O, to him
  The voice of Nature was an angel’s hymn! 
    But was there, then, one human voice that brought
  Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought,
  In tones, interpreting in worthy guise
  The varied notes of Eden’s melodies?—­
  O, happier we! for unto us ’tis given
  To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.

December 1, 1851.

MY HERBARIUM.

Poor, dry, musty flowers!  Who would believe you ever danced in the wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the air?  A touch now breaks your brittle leaves.  Your odors are like attic herbs, or green tea, or mouldy books.  Your forms are bent and flattened into every ugly and distorted shape.  Your lovely colors are faded,—­white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous scarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown.  Poor things!  Who drew you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry your moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?